


Afflicted

by Huggle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Dean, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Castiel, M/M, Mark of Cain, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 11:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5415722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huggle/pseuds/Huggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finds a way to sate the Mark.</p>
<p>Sam's made many sacrifices for his brother, but this is a sacrifice too far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afflicted

Dean found the book by accident. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just looking, eyes drifting over the faded lettering on the spines of all the different volumes of lore and spells. 

What drew his attention was that it didn’t have a name. There was nothing to suggest it ever had, no flecks of gilt showing where the title had been until time and a lack of care had scaled the lettering away.

That was why he picked it up and took it to the reading table. 

Sam thought they should exercise a little caution when using the library. Not all of the Men of Letters were good people, he reasoned. And even if they were, some of the books they’d kept probably held dangerous knowledge. Maybe even traps or spells to prevent them being opened or removed.

Dean thought Sam had seen one too many Harry Potter films. 

So he turned on one of the lamps and figured he’d try the first couple of pages, see what was in the book with no name, then go make a start on dinner.

Two hours later, he was still there – turning each page with something jammed half way between a rare reverence and disbelief.

When Sam came to find him, bitching that he’d had to cook for the third night in a row, he shut up the minute he saw Dean’s face.

Dean silently handed him the book and left.

**

Of course there was no way to prove it was another book of the Old Testament. It didn’t quite fit in anywhere, as far as they could tell. It jumped backward and forward, like someone had snatched random pages out of an existing book and shuffled them and presented them as a new chapter.

But it certainly cast things in a different light.

Like the relationship between Cain and Abel for instance. As it turned out, Cain didn’t kill Abel because he was jealous or bitter.

He was desperate, apparently, and did it because Abel wouldn’t consent to lie with him.

At the time, Dean just thought what a fucked up pervert Cain was and then didn’t think on it again.

Not until he’d actually met the man in question.

And not until nearly a year later, when blood stained every groove and line on his hands, was crusted black under his fingernails, was spattered across his face and his clothing.

Then he thought that maybe, in hindsight, he was being a little judgemental.

**

Sam reacted much as he’d predicted.

“Dean, I think that thing’s made you a little crazy.”

Dean glanced down at the inflamed markings on his arm. Sam wasn’t wrong, but he would get more crazy than this if his brother didn’t help.

“You read the book, Sam. Maybe a lot of people would still be alive if Abel had said yes. Including him.”

He could see the look on Sam’s face. He’d come to think of it as the ‘handling Dean’ look. Behind it, Sam’s cogs were turning as he rotated the situation this way and that way. Looked at it from all angles, like a particularly difficult puzzle that he had to solve.

“Answer’s right there, Sam,” Dean said, and shoved the book across the table towards him.

“If you think the answer’s me agreeing to let you fuck me,” Sam returned.

Dean laughed. It came out more desperate than amused, but Sam had no idea. Dean had showered and changed, and still felt like he was covered in the blood of those guys who’d tried to take Claire. When he’d snapped out of it, finally, to find Sam shouting at him and shaking him, all he really knew was the dark satisfaction bubbling away inside of him.

Sam had hauled him to his feet and wrapped his arms around him to keep him there. Kept him upright as he hauled him outside, ordered him to keep looking straight ahead. Not down, not left or right.

When Sam had pushed him into the front passenger seat, Claire had actually screamed until Cas had held her tighter and promised her it would be ok.

“So I’ll take that as a no,” Dean said. And hoped that neither of them came to regret it.

**

When Sam found him, Dean was sitting at the bar throwing back his fourth whiskey. Straight up, straight down, and it wasn’t doing a damn thing. The waitress was eyeing him cautiously, like she expected trouble.

She didn’t have to worry. He’d done enough tonight to keep it happy. Sated. He’d pleased it with the blood sacrifice he’d offered.

Tomorrow would be another story.

But as always he was watching the door so he saw Sam come in.

Sam was pale and shaking and Dean felt his centre of balance shift, almost taking him off the bar stool.

He’d left Castiel alive. Fought it off at that last second, ignored the voice telling him it would feel so good to just stab that blade into the sweet spot. Watch him arch upwards in a final moment of agony and then be one of the few humans ever to behold the death throes of an angel.

But Cas had been weak anyway. Tattered Grace almost burned out. Maybe he’d done enough to finish him without having to use the blade.

Maybe Sam was here to tell him that he’d killed their friend.

Sam came to him slowly, each step careful and measured like he was walking along a high ledge above a hundred-foot drop. Dean ordered two more whiskeys and shoved them both in front of the empty stool next to him.

His brother didn’t even notice. His eyes never left Dean, never for a moment, and then he turned around and walked straight back out.

Dean paid his tab and followed. He didn’t rush to catch Sam up; he didn’t have to, as his brother was still keeping that same pace. Slow, steady.

Dean realised he was trying to keep control of himself and it had been a long time since he’d seen Sam like that.

Like he was barely holding on.

He kept a reasonable distance behind Sam and watched him cross the road to the small motel, watched him go inside the office and then come back out a few moments later. He went right, past the doors, until he reached the end of the row. He took out a key, turned it in the lock and went in.

The light never came on, but the door remained open, and Dean figured that was as much of an invitation as he was going to get.

**

Sam was standing in the darkness when he went in. Looking at the bed, eyes fixed on it.

Dean closed the door behind him and reached for the light switch.

“Don’t,” Sam said. “Just lock the door.”

Dean did. “Sam.”

Sam shook his head, a hard jerking motion, and then took off his coat. 

“I had to carry him, Dean. There wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t broken or bloody.”

The shirts came next, over and inner. They joined the coat on the floor.

“He came to in the infirmary and I had to put two ampoules of morphine in him. It didn’t help but it was all we had there.”

Dean watched him undo the buttons on his fly and then kick off his shoes. Then he pushed down his jeans and briefs and stepped out of them.

“And even then he was asking where you were. Telling me I had to find you, but I had to approach you with caution. Like I needed that warning.”

Now, for the first time since he’d stepped in the room, Sam looked at him. They were close enough that Dean could see the anguish on his brother’s face. Could see the tears welling up in his eyes.

“I don’t even know if he’ll still be alive when I get back.”

_I_. When _I_ get back.

Dean stared at his brother, standing there naked, trembling and grieving for an anticipated loss – half in shock because his big brother was the one who’d inflicted it and the rest because Sam believed he’d helped.

He wished he could feel it too, but the Mark growled and swallowed it down before it had a chance to even touch him.

It was suddenly hungry again.

“Get on the bed, Sam,” he said.

**

Sam had seen Dean do clever things with his hands. Skilful things. Dismantle and clean weaponry. Repair the Impala. Stitch wounds so neatly the scarring would be minimal.

He’d seen him do terrible things with his hands as well.

But, eyes squeezed shut despite the darkness, he was grateful he wouldn’t have to see what Dean was using them for now.

He could feel it though. Dean’s calloused fingers raising goose bumps as they rubbed over his skin. Hands moving down to his waist, settling there for a moment then shifting lower.

Sam tried hard not to tense, but every part of him wanted to shy away even though he’d known this was going to happen. 

If he’d let it happen when Dean first asked, his brother wouldn’t have more blood on his hands. Castiel’s blood, and the guilt and self-loathing that Sam knew would come right along with it.

He’d always tried to protect Dean. This was just the only way to protect him, to save him, now.

Sam took a breath and then Dean’s fingers were in him, moving and pushing and stretching, and it hurt more than he’d expected. He wasn’t sure he could take anymore, but he would have to. Dean would have to, because the Mark has pushed both of them into this.

They were both beyond any pretence of choice, now.

Still, when it happened, when Dean was seated in him…. It was like being branded on the inside, pain suddenly sharp and full and despite his love for Dean, his need to be Dean’s buffer between him and the Mark, he couldn’t.

He tried to pull forward, away, but Dean locked his arms around him. His brother settled back and hauled Sam with him, pressed his lips to Sam’s neck, his shoulder.

Sam could feel Dean’s lips moving against his skin, but he couldn’t hear any words. He grabbed hold of Dean’s wrists where they crossed against his chest, and held on with a grip that would leave bruises to show later.

Another mark. But then Sam would bear one too after this, another to add to his collection.

He let Dean push up into him, with a strength that was darkly enhanced but still so _Dean_. He didn’t really have a choice, even if Dean wasn’t holding onto him so tightly that he almost couldn’t breathe.

Again, and again, and Sam wondered how long it would take. He gasped as he felt Dean reach around and take him in hand, working him fast and sloppily, like he couldn’t finish unless Sam was there with him too.

It was too rough, and there had never been a time in his life that Sam felt less aroused, but then he could finally hear what Dean was saying to him.

That was enough, and Sam came so hard he slumped forward like he’d taken a blow. Only Dean’s arm around him kept him from slamming his head off the wall behind the bed. He felt Dean’s body hitch against him and figured he was done too.

He wasn’t ready for Dean to ease them around and down, onto their sides, with Dean still in him.

But with his body feeling almost boneless, a numbness settling over him inside and out, there wasn’t much he could do about it.

They lay still and silent for several moments, and then Dean finally withdrew. It hurt, but not as much as before and then Dean pressed his forehead against Sam’s shoulder.

“No point in saying I’m sorry,” he said, quietly.

Sam patted his arm, let his hand settle there. “I know you are. I am, too. I’m sorry you have that thing on your arm. I’m sorry we had to do this.”

_I can’t be sorry that we did_. Not when he’d seen the alternatives.

“You know we might need to again.”

Sam closed his eyes. He hadn’t even been sure it would work, hadn’t been sure that Dean wouldn’t just kill him before, during or after. He still wasn’t sure which outcome he’d been more afraid of: success or failure.

“I know.”

“I nearly killed Cas.”

“I know.”

“Can I come home?”

Sam shrugged Dean’s grip loose enough that he could turn around to face him. Dean’s eyes were wide in the darkness, his face set as though he expected to be told no. To be turned out and left alone to deal with all of it.

“Always.”

 

**

Castiel lived.

Sam checked on him first, found him still sleeping, wounds slowly healing. He stood there, watching him for a few moments, and then checked the wards on the door to the infirmary were still in place. 

A precaution he’d taken before he left in case Dean killed him and then came back to finish Castiel off if the angel hadn’t died while they were gone.

Reassured, Sam limped back to Dean’s room. His brother was sitting on the edge of his bed, slumped forward, head hung low.

“He ok?” he said, never looking up.

Sam started to nod, then realised Dean wouldn’t see it. “Breathing. Healing. Slowly.”

“You ok?”

Sam felt his throat tighten but he forced an answer out anyway. “Breathing.”

Dean made a hoarse sound, an almost chuckle, low and bitter. “Healing?”

Sam sat next to him and Dean slid sideways until Sam was all that was holding him up.

“Slowly.”

**Author's Note:**

> To fill a prompt at the SPN Kink meme that called for Dean to sate the Mark of Cain using Sam.


End file.
